


Advanced Entomology

by ikementally-deficient (pepperbar)



Category: Mr. Love: Queen’s Choice (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Cunnilingus, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Grooming, Gustav Klimt, Het Sex, Lepidoptery, Slow Burn, Smut, This is so educational, Toys, Uninformed Consent, author has issues with self-restraint, edging but only for one party kind of, got some plot in my PWP, one-sided sex, scope creep, sexual awakening, skin as canvas, so does Lucien, spoilers for post-chapter 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2020-09-01 18:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperbar/pseuds/ikementally-deficient
Summary: Lucien’s mission is for Black Swan, but he is awakening the Queen in a different sense than they intended.





	1. The Etymology of Names

**Author's Note:**

> I have a problem with scope creep.
> 
> This series started as a single piece, prompted by an off-hand comment from Lutz (@whatsnewlu): “Ink me, sensei.” I was inspired to write some stand-alone smut, the original version of Taxonomic Identification. If you read that version, you’ll note there’s no ink in it. At the time I already knew I’d have to write a follow-up to work in some sexy brushwork, but before I got around to that part I had some kind of seizure and when I came to my senses realised I’d mapped out an entire series, with plot and continuity and symbolism and shit. The perils of a degree in literature. 
> 
> Hopefully you will find this survey of Viennese painters, Greek mythology, and lepidoptery sufficiently educational to overlook the trashy porn that motivated it (or, conversely, that the trashy porn is hot enough to justify reading several thousand words of elective courses).
> 
> Trigger warnings: Lucien, in canon and in this story, is not a good person. He deliberately manipulates the player character into a sexual relationship for his own ends, which in later chapters includes conditioning her into subservience to him. It’s not always evident from POV, both because Lucien is not the type of person to spend a lot of time agonising over his ethical choices, and because this is at heart an escapist sexual fantasy story, but it is there motivating him from the beginning. This is not a fully informed, consensual relationship, and definitely not an example of a healthy, safe dom/sub relationship. The amount of actual harm he does is arguable, and none of it is physical, but his intent, all the way through is maliciously predatory. Please read with care for your own emotional health.
> 
> With much love for the thirsty hoes of the Thots of MLQC discord server.

The museum is silent and empty, except for two figures.

“I thought there would be more people here,” she mumbles, blushing. Lucien smiles down at her, hands in the pockets of his white coat.

“We’re just lucky, I guess.” He admires the way his smooth voice makes her blush deepen.

“That’s true.” She perks up a bit. “At least I don’t have to try and see the paintings over someone’s shoulder.” No matter how many times it happens, she never guesses that he’s orchestrated their public isolation. Her naivete is touching. Ridiculous, but touching. It does make his mission easier; she trusts so easily, his butterfly.

Lucien leads her down the hallway to the gallery, their footsteps echoing. “I was so pleased when you told me about this exhibit. Gustav Klimt is one of my favourite painters.”

“Really?” Her smile is a beam of sunlight. “I had never heard of him before Kiki passed me the tickets.” Lucien schools his face into neutrality; Kiki is a most useful tool, with her schoolgirl giddiness for romantic contrivances. They pause at the large double doors. Lucien pushes one open and guides her inside with a hand on the small of her back. Her smile turns shy as she blushes again.

“Really. Klimt was a founding member of a group known as The Vienna Secession.” The gallery is a huge rectangular room. One side is entirely windowed, and the afternoon sun paints the wooden floor a warm chestnut hue. She stutters to a halt, taking in the collection. “He started as a painter of murals, but Viennese society at the time was very conservative.” Lucien leads her to the first painting of the exhibit. “His early works did not stand out from those of his peers.” He shoots a sidelong glance at her. 

She leans close to [ the painting ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_paintings_by_Gustav_Klimt#/media/File:Gustav_Klimt_072.JPG), squinting at the tiny faces. “It’s so detailed!”

“Yes,” Lucien chuckles. “Despite his lack of innovation in this period, Klimt was always very technically skilled.” He waits for her to return her attention to him before continuing to the [ next painting ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_paintings_by_Gustav_Klimt#/media/File:Gustav_Klimt_064.jpg). “He was fascinated by the female form, and started incorporating the figures of myth into his work.”

“Is that a harp?” 

“A lyre. This painting is of Sappho, an ancient Greek poet.” Lucien tucks his chin into his hand and smiles. “She was known for her words on love, particularly . . . between women.” She turns to stare at him, not sure if he’s joking. He nods.

“So Sappho was --?” She trails off, going red.

“From the isle of Lesbos, yes.” He ignores her luminescent blush and moves on. “Klimt wanted to incorporate sexuality into the existing symbological context, but was derided for putting ‘pornography’ into his public works.” His hand finds hers, tugging her to the next [ painting ](https://www.gustav-klimt.com/Nuda-Veritas.jsp) . “The _ Nuda Veritas _ was his response.” 

She mutters under her breath for a moment, and he waits, pleased to see she’s working it out for herself. “_Nuda Veritas _ . . . that’s ‘naked truth’, isn’t it?”

“Very good.” He squeezes her hand gently. “She was Klimt’s way of telling his audience that he was done trying to please everyone. Her mirror is an invitation to examine one’s own prejudices and interpretations.” He watches her face as she takes in the nude woman, painted larger than life. “Klimt and several others who wanted to break free from the traditional semiotics started the Vienna Secession and created the first space in Vienna dedicated to contemporary art.” Lucien’s gaze wanders over the painting’s border, shining in gold. “This was the beginning of Klimt’s ‘Gold Period’. Many of his paintings from this point incorporate gold leaf.” 

The golden paintings had been the start of his fixation with Klimt. In the sterile grayscale world of Black Swan, such visual warmth drew him, like a moth to a flame. He reaches out and places one arm around her shoulders, gathering her to him under the guise of placing her at the best angle to see the next [ painting ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dana%C3%AB_\(Klimt_painting\)) in the row: a woman curled, naked, with copper hair and a waterfall of gold pouring down onto her most secret places. Danae. _ Eventually, _ he thinks. 

She looks up at the painting and her eyes widen. “Who is _ that_? What’s happening to her?”

He leans down to speak directly in her ear, gaze remaining steady on Danae. “The princess Danae. She was the daughter of the King of Argos. Her father was told by an oracle that his grandson would kill him, so he shut her up in a tower to prevent her ever having a child.” He shakes his head. “Zeus, the king of the gods, was taken by her beauty and visited her in the form of a shower of gold.” He tears his gaze away at last. “Danae’s child from Zeus was named Perseus, who later became famous for defeating the Gorgon.” 

“The woman with snakes for hair?” 

“Correct. All Zeus’s children were heroes, and he sired many of them with mortal women like Danae. Not always as a shower of gold, of course, but rarely ever as a man. He disguised himself as the goddess Artemis, an eagle, a bull, even a swan once.” He chuckles at the private joke, returning his attention to the painting. 

“And was the oracle right?” The sun is starting to sink towards the horizon. The warm light has crept up the wall to hit the bottom half of the painting, setting the golden shower ablaze. It blinds him for a moment.

“Hmm?” 

“Did Perseus kill the King of Argos?” Her eyes are avidly tracing the path of gold leaf on the painting.

“Oh, yes. Many years later, by accident. Perseus never held any acrimony towards his grandfather. He didn’t even know who he was until after the king was dead.” Lucien shrugs. “Sometimes fighting fate only brings you closer to your destiny.”

After a moment she turns her head to look at him. “Ah!” Her fading blush blooms once more as she realises his face is close enough to share breath. The sun reflects in her brown eyes, painting them the same gold as Zeus’s waterfall when her pupils contract in the sudden brightness. She tries to step back, but Lucien keeps his arm firm about her shoulders. He straightens, removing his lips from her personal space, and she relaxes a little. “Wh-which painting is your favourite?”

“You want to know my favourite?” Lucien smiles down at her. She nods, hesitantly, then firmly.

“Of course I do.” She bites her lower lip as if debating the next sentence. “You’re such a mystery to me, Lucien. I’ll take any opportunity to learn more about you.”

He crinkles his eyes at her in the innocent expression he’s practiced for years. “A mystery? Me?” Without waiting for an answer, he sweeps her past several paintings, coming to a stop in front of a large depiction of a man clasping a woman. His face is hidden, buried in her neck as her head tilts back. The expression on her face is blissful. “This is my favourite.” Lucien steps behind her and slides both arms around her, pulling her against his chest gently. She resists out of reflex, then relaxes against him, letting her head fall back against his shoulder.

“I’ve seen this one before,” she whispers as her gaze roams over the scene. “On posters.”

“It’s probably Klimt’s most popular work,” Lucien admits quietly. “_The Kiss_.” He breathes deeply, reveling in the faint sweet smell of her tawny hair. He doesn’t see the painting in front of him; the vision of her eyes blazing gold in the sun is superimposed over the couple in their gold robes.

“That’s ironic, isn’t it?” She rolls her head to look up at him, not surprised by his nearness this time. 

“Ironic? How so?”

“Well, you said Klimt was your favourite because he wanted to please only himself. But your favourite painting of his is the one that pleased everybody.” He wonders if she’s mocking him, but her warm amber stare is guileless.

“That’s true, I suppose.” His eyes unfocus as he considers this. “I don’t think I can justify it, though. Something about this work just . . . appeals to me.”

She takes a deep breath, gives him a tremulous smile and turns to face him, still in the circle of his arms. “Maybe it means you’re not such a mystery after all, Professor.” Her eyes gleam with -- hope? Desire? He stares down at her for several seconds, long enough for the light in her eyes to fade as he tries to analyze it. She begins to stiffen, and he realises he’s wasting his golden opportunity.

“Maybe you’re right.” He puts a hint of apology in his voice as it lowers. “Sometimes I forget to be anything other than the Professor.” He brings his right hand up to cup her chin, and tightens his left arm around her waist. “But perhaps I’m just a man after all.” Slowly, slowly, determined not to startle her, he dips his face towards hers. As his lips near hers, her eyelids flutter shut and her lips part slightly. He meets her mouth in a chaste kiss, savouring her flavour of salt and candy. 

She sighs as they part, but seems to have forgotten about moving away from him. He brushes her hair back with his right hand and brings her face back to his. This kiss is still controlled, but his lips separate to suck gently at her lower lip. He can feel her face heating, but he’s too close to see the blush moving down her neck; he can only follow it with his mouth, pressing slow kisses across her jaw to the pulse in her throat. His fingers trail through her hair and curl against her nape. She shivers in his arms and buries her face in his chest.

“Don’t be shy,” he chuckles. 

“I’ve never -- I’m not --” She mumbles abortive sentences into his shirtfront. He catches her chin again and urges her to meet his eyes.

“I know this is new for you.” He gives her his most reassuring smile and kisses her forehead. “We’ll take this slowly.” He releases her from his embrace, but catches her hand, letting their fingers tangle as they start to walk along the row of paintings again. He glances at her from hooded eyes, noticing that she’s too flustered to take in the artwork now.

As they leave the gallery, walking close enough that their shoulders brush and their fingers rub with each step, she looks up at Lucien and gives him that sunbeam smile again. “Thank you for coming with me today, Lucien.” She looks like she wants to continue, but uncertainty crosses her face. He takes pity on her.

“Are you free tomorrow evening? For dinner?”

Her expression firms again, that gleam of _ yearning _ shining in her eyes again. “L-like, a date?” she stutters out, determined to achieve clarity despite her embarrassment.

He nods. “A date, yes. I would like to continue our relationship on a more . . . intimate level.”

“Then, yes. I am free. For you.” She holds out her hand to him and he raises it to press against his cheek before leaving one last kiss against the delicate tracery of veins in her wrist. Her fingers twitch, curling against his.

He whispers against her wrist. “I’m looking forward to it.”


	2. Nectaring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Nectaring’, I swear to god, is a real word describing how butterflies feed from flowers.

Dinner. In his apartment. After weeks of dates in public, dinner in restaurants, and decreasingly decorous kisses in darkened theatres, Lucien thinks his experiment is ready to proceed to the next stage.

Everything he feeds her is sweet with nectar. The warm summer is perfect for fruit and honey, and he indulges the tastes of his butterfly.

At last, she sips the last of the juice from her bowl of peaches and smiles at him. “I’m such a glutton, I can’t resist fresh fruit!”

Lucien rests his chin on his hands and smiles at her from across the table. “Then I chose well.”

“You did! Everything was so delicious.” Their eyes meet, and Lucien lets his smile broaden. Tension warms the air between them. After a few moments of silence her gaze stutters away nervously. She starts gathering the plates, looking for something to occupy herself with. Lucien rises and takes the plates from her, placing them back on the table. 

“Don’t worry about that right now.” He puts his hands on her shoulders and steers her to the couch. “Sit, I’ll put on a movie.” He hears her settling into the corner cushions as he turns to the shelf of DVDs. He runs his fingers along the row, finally selecting _ My Fair Lady_. He tracks the near-silence of her anxious fidgeting while he puts the disc in and turns on the television.

The cheery overture begins as the opening credits begin. “Since you like _ Roman Holiday _ so much, I thought you might enjoy another of Audrey Hepburn’s films.” He takes a seat at the other end of the couch and turns off the lamp. They are saved from complete darkness by the glow of the screen. Lucien turns his innocent smile on her as he drapes his arm across the back of the couch. The invitation is clear, and his weeks of patience are rewarded as she hesitantly slides over to lean against him. 

As the film progresses, she relaxes into him. He rubs his fingers in light circles on her arm, seemingly nonchalant. His eyes are on the television, but his attention is focused on her with laser intensity. He knows she’s ready to be pushed, but how far? His associates are impatient, overbearing even, but he knows this situation is as fragile as a butterfly’s wings; too heavy a hand will destroy it beyond repair.

She turns to him as Eliza Doolittle returns to Henry Higgins. “I love this movie. Thank you for thinking of it.” She presses closer to him, imperceptibly. 

“I’m so happy you liked it.” He kisses her forehead with a smile, and inwardly revels in the way her head tilts back. Her eyelashes flutter across his mouth as her lips seek his, unsatisfied with that first modest osculation. Lucien curls his arm around her, gathering her to his chest. His other hand settles at her hip, carefully placed to avoid startling her. 

Her kisses are warm, and soft at first. He lets her set the pace, ever mindful of her innocence. He doubts she comprehends the breadth of his patience. It takes several minutes of happy sighs before her kisses become sloppier, her mouth opening to him like the petals of a rose, inviting his tongue inside. Her entire body eases into him, her skirt rucking up over her thighs as her weight settles into his lap. His hands spasm once before he masters himself, fingertips digging into the soft curve of her hips. Her breath hitches, and he can feel her heart hammering in her chest as she arches into him.

“_ Lucien _\--” it comes out as a reedy gasp. She pulls back slightly, enough to look down at his face. Her eyes are obscured to him in the backlight of the television. He reaches out and turns the lamp back on. Her cheeks are flushed pink, lips shining and pupils dilated with want. She takes a deep panting breath. “Lucien, I -- do you want to --” He sees the fear lurking in her eyes, under the yearning, and cuts her off with another kiss. It’s slow and gentle, not the surge upward he wants to make. 

“I do,” he assures her. “Very much. But not before you’re ready for it.” 

He can tell she’s about to argue, and forestalls it by cradling his arms around her and laying her down on the couch. He leans over her, careful not to rest his weight on her. “Don’t push yourself.” He kisses her lips, then her cheek, then the soft spot under her jaw. “There are . . . other things we can do instead.”

Her eyes are relieved and perplexed all at once. He grins suggestively before returning to her jaw, pressing a searing kiss there and then running his tongue down the line of her throat to her collar bone. She shivers under him and hitches one leg around his calf. “I - I would like that.” 

He mouths at her clavicle before nuzzling his nose down the line of buttons on her blouse. “May I undo these?” Hearing an affirmative hum, Lucien shifts all his weight to one arm to free up a hand. He takes his time, savoring the soft skin revealed inch by pale inch. The white cotton bra smells of laundry detergent, deodorant, and a hint of sweat. He pauses with his forehead against her sternum, the faint musk filling his nostrils. She starts to tremble as he drags his tongue lightly along the edge of the bra cup. 

As if to distract her, he starts lecturing. “There are many forms of sexual intercourse,” he mumbles against her breast. “Penetrative sex is only the most obvious.” His free hand tugs the cup down, freeing her nipple. It’s already pebbled and taut, a dark rosy pink, inviting him to caress it. He slants a look up at her; her head is tipped back against the arm of the couch, mouth open and panting. He sucks the bud into his mouth and swirls his tongue against it. Her torso ripples under him as her hands aimlessly seek purchase and one lands in his hair. Tentatively, she tugs, and he obediently follows the pull back to her mouth. 

“What other forms did you have in mind, Professor?” Her voice is breathy and teasing. She’s confident, now that she knows the Rubicon won’t be crossed tonight. 

“Hmmm,” he rumbles against her throat. His thumb skates up her rib cage and pops open the bra’s front clasp. Her other breast falls free, soft and heavy against his bicep. “I would very much like to explore you.” He always felt he was misnamed as Ares. Hephaestus the artificer suits him much better. “To study what makes you feel good.”

“Research again?” She giggles.

“But not a type I’ll be able to forget.” He pulls her arms around his neck and lifts her to a sitting position, then slides down to kneel on the floor in front of her. He rests his forehead between her breasts and splays his hands around her slender waist. She ruffles his hair and runs her nails lightly down the back of his neck. 

Lucien nibbles along the curve of her breast, marveling at the gooseflesh that rises in the wake of his lips. He chases the anticipation of sensation down her side, flicking his tongue in the smooth indentations between each rib. His right hand rises as his mouth descends; he kneads her breast while his tongue traces down along the floating rib and he can nip gently at her waist, eliciting a strangled moan.

His hands slide down at last, delving under her rumpled skirt. One thumb runs along the edge of her panties before hooking under them at the narrowest spot over her hip. His other hand wanders up the curve of her inner thigh, seeking her apex.

“Like Zeus, I come to you not as a man.” He presses kisses down the centre line of her stomach, drawing her panties down at the same time. He can feel her stomach muscles tightening before he draws away to push the skirt up completely, giving him total access to her. “Today, instead, I’ll be like the shower of gold that visited Danae.” Her panties land on the floor beside him and he rests his chin on her thighs to look up at her before he parts her legs. She stares back at him, petrified with lust. It occurs to him in this instance he might be more like the Gorgon than Zeus.

He breathes warmly over her mons, and isn’t surprised that’s all it takes to make her hips cant towards him. It fortuitously brings her closer to him, and he takes the opportunity to tongue her labia apart, searching for that little bundle of nerves. She whimpers above him, one hand clenching suddenly in his hair. He licks her clitoris with agonising slowness and feels her heels dig into his back. The whimper becomes a keening gasp when he sucks her nub completely into his mouth, letting his teeth scrape it lightly. Her stomach spasms against his forehead as she tries to flinch away and push closer to him at the same time, the new sensations trapping her instead. He hums into her and slides his fingers inside, the pin holding down the butterfly for display.

Carefully he spreads her lips wider, fluttering his fingers and tongue in counterpoint. Her knees start to shake against his biceps as she climbs towards orgasm. Lucien stills his fingers and uses his free hand to lift her right thigh onto his shoulder. He presses searing kisses into her gracilis, following the muscle from the plush cushion of her labia down to her knee. His index and middle finger stay quiescent inside her, assessing the tension of the smooth muscle there. He rests his cheek against her knee and shows her a soft smile, projecting affection and empathy rather than the wild joy he feels at successfully capturing her with yet another line of spider’s silk.

“Are you ready?” His voice is low and velvety and he whispers the question into the tendons of her knee. She shivers and swallows thickly, but can’t find her voice. Instead she nods, weak at first, but then more forcefully as he waits.

He slides his fingers out of her and she whimpers, scrabbling at his scalp, but before she can mount a coherent protest he’s diving into her, dragging both her thighs against his shoulders as he thrusts his tongue inside of her. He pins her with his left arm as she tries to curl up around him, while his right hand slides around her hip and over her belly to finger that nub from above as his nose nuzzles at it from below.

The shrill sounds of her orgasm are muffled by her thighs around his ears, but he can feel her body try to suck him further in, trapping his face against her pelvis as she ripples around his tongue. He notes the peristalsis in satisfaction when her musk coats his chin. He releases her clitoris, but keeps his lips pressed against her until he feels her relax again. 

Lucien rises from his kneeling position, ignoring the cramp in one knee. She is undone, her chestnut hair spread across the back of the couch, the hand not still tangled in his hair fallen limply along the cushions. Her exposed breasts are prickled with goose bumps, rising and falling with her rapid breaths. Her eyelids drift open to find him smiling down at her, and she meets it with a relaxed smile of her own. It strikes Lucien that this is the calmest he’s ever seen her; normally she is a complex collection of anxiety, determination, and giddiness. This languidness is novel.

She lifts her hand and brushes his hair back from his forehead before letting it flop down beside her. “That - that was --” she trails off into a satisfied sigh. He joins her on the couch, nudging until she’s cradled against his chest with her face tucked into his neck. 

“That was delicious.” He finishes the sentence for her. She nods into his throat, already drowsy. 

“But what about you, Lucien?” 

“I’m happy to wait,” he replies, _ leaning _ on her drowsiness. It only takes a few breaths for her to drift fully to sleep, but Lucien sits, cradling her for nearly a quarter of an hour before carrying her to the bedroom. He carefully removes her disheveled clothing and tucks her into his bed.


	3. Taxonomic Identification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an expanded version of what was originally posted as a standalone work.

She lies in his bed, facedown on the pillow. Her breathing is soft and even. The pale pre-dawn light filters in through the blinds, throwing faint stripes across her spine. 

Lucien props himself up on one elbow, studying the effect. The bars of light fan over her ribs like the vanes of a dragon’s wing. The idea intrigues him; she’s no dragon, of course, his gentle, fragile butterfly, but wings . . . He trails his fingers lightly across her naked back, tracing the path of the light.

She stirs, a soft moan heralding her slide out of deep sleep. After a moment, she rolls her face towards him enough to open one eye and see him through the curtain of hair. “Lucien?” She breathes his name, barely loud enough to break the morning silence. He smiles gently and leans down to press a kiss to her forehead. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” He continues to trace lines on her back, imagining what kind of wings might spring from her delicate shoulders. “No need to wake up yet, it’s still early.” She sighs in response, eye fluttering shut.

“That feels so nice,” she whispers. “It feels like you’re drawing a picture.”

Lucien chuckles softly. “In a way.” He leans down and presses another kiss between her left shoulder blade and her spine. “I was imagining,” he whispers against her skin, “what you might look like as a butterfly. If you had wings here,” he slides his mouth across her spine to the other side, “and here.”

She shivers under him, but her one visible eye stays closed. “What kind of butterfly would I be?”

“Hmmm.” He rolls back to his side of the bed, resting his head on the pillow to look directly at her face. “An excellent question.” He brushes her hair back from her face. “What do you think?”

“Something pretty, I think. Brightly coloured.”

Lucien isn’t sure if she knows the brightest coloured insects are usually poisonous, and butterflies are no different, but he humours her all the same. “Then I think one of the Nymphalidae would be best for you. The name is appropriate; you’re very nymph-like as you are.” He returns to running his hand slowly down her back while he ruminates. She sighs as his fingertips slide down the small of her back and circle lazily at the curve of her rear. “Perhaps  _ kaniska canace _ , the blue admiral. It has dark wings, with an azure stripe along the edge.” He lets his fingers caress the fold where buttocks meets thigh, noting where the muscle twitches in response. “But blue doesn’t suit you. It’s too cool a colour.”

He props himself up again, rubbing the back of her thigh until the muscle relaxes again. “Maybe one of the  _ vanessas _ , the painted ladies.” His hand starts to wander up its return path, and wavers near the cleft of her legs, as if considering. It’s not until her breath hitches that his hand moves on to trace her vertebrae. She sighs again, almost mournfully this time.

“I don’t think ‘painted lady’ suits you either.” He shifts towards her, breathing each word into her neck and shoulder. “Your appeal is entirely lacking in that kind of artifice.” Her breath hitches again, speeding up. His hand splays out in response, covering her entire shoulder blade and sliding around her ribs to tease at the side of her breast.

“No, I think there is only one butterfly for you.  _ Danaus plexippus. _ ” Lucien mouths his way to the back of her neck and starts slowly, deliberately, kissing his way down her spine. 

“Does that one have -- ” she gasps as he hits a particularly sensitive spot. “-- a proper name?”

He smiles into her tailbone, resting his chin in the cleft of her buttocks and licking the dimple above each cheek before answering. “Of course. Its common name is the Monarch butterfly.”

“Monarch --  _ ah! _ \-- butterfly?” Her question is interrupted by his sudden parting of her legs with one hand, the other hand resting lightly on the small of her back to keep her from rolling over. He slips his fingers into the shadowy gap, enjoying the warm damp smell of arousal.

“Oh yes.” He finds the sensitive nub of her with his fingers, and strokes it slowly as he slides the rest of his body down the bed, finally resting his face between her legs. “I can think of no better title for you, my butterfly.” He exhales warmly and has to retrieve his other hand to keep her thighs from clenching around his ears. “You are, after all, my Queen.” His tongue slips into her soft folds. She whimpers as his fingers speed up, and her legs widen as she tries to push back towards him. 

“Oh, not yet, little butterfly.” He slides his free hand up her thigh and spreads her open wider, admiring the glistening pink flesh before him. “I’m not done worshipping my queen.” He licks her open, maintaining friction on her nub as his tongue slides inside her. His other hand wanders further back, until he’s drawing careful circles around her pucker.

“Lu --  _ Lucien. _ ” Her voice sounds scandalised, but the rest of her tightens around him in a way he recognises. He keeps the fingers of his right hand on her clitoris and slides his thumb deep inside her, pressing firmly with his left thumb at the same time. Her answering moan starts throaty, but quickly spirals higher as he feels her quake around him.

He doesn’t give her time to recover before he slides his fingers out of her, rubbing them against his thumb to gauge the slickness. Satisfied, he draws them back through her folds, trailing a wet line to the tight whorl between her cheeks. She shudders and stiffens when he begins to work his index finger into her, unsure how to react to this new intrusion. In Lucien’s mind, her phantom wings close tight together above her. He strokes her back with his open palm, soothing her like a restive horse.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, leaving his hand heavy between her shoulder blades, imagining the brilliant autumn leaf of her wings opening flat again to catch the rays of the rising sun. “I promise you’ll enjoy this.”

He knows better than to thrust at this early juncture, contenting himself with slowly coercing her body to accept the intermediate phalange of his finger. He pauses to admire the way the aperture constricts around his knuckle. She breathes shallowly under him, and he can feel the tension in her back.

“You know,” he says conversationally, “The latin name of the monarch butterfly is the male form of Danae.”

In spite of herself, this catches her interest. He’s accustomed her to hanging on his every word by now, even in this situation where his hands should be louder than his voice. “Really?”

“Oh, yes.” Lucien rolls his hand, letting his finger press against every side of this tightest channel. She grunts, a tiny, unfeminine sound. “There was a man named Danaeus, another grandson of Zeus, so the story goes.” He assesses her resistance before crooking his finger slightly. Her hands spasm into the pillow, but she makes no protest.

“Species names are always male though, in Latin.” He leans over her, letting his weight settle on her back as his finger slowly rubs in and out of her. “A lepidopterist named Pyle said that he felt Klimt’s Danae, the golden shower Danae, was a much better inspiration.” He can feel her hips start to roll, pushing back into him as he starts to set a rhythm, pumping that finger back into her. He sets his teeth where her neck and shoulder meet, letting the scrape provide more stimulation as his left hand wriggles between her and the mattress, seeking her clitoris again. “ _ I’m inclined to agree with him.” _

Trapped under him as she is, overwhelmed with unfamiliar sensations, it takes no time at all for her to climax again, the pillow crumpling under her desperately clutching hands and muffling the ascending cries of pleasure. 

At last she relaxes, sprawling bonelessly as he slides his hand out of her and reaches for a tissue. By the time he’s arranged himself beside her again, her breathing has evened out and she’s fast asleep. Lucien gently gathers her against himself, resting her head on his shoulder and draping her arm across his chest.

“Sleep a while longer, my queen.”


	4. Aposematism and Mullerian Mimicry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no sex in this chapter. It's weird, I know, but Lucien had other ideas. I promise the next two are extra smutty.
> 
> This is where we get really spoilery, specifically for chapter 14 of the game. The italicized text of MC's dream that begins the chapter is taken verbatim from her premonitory dream of that chapter, and more of it gets described. This is also the point at which we begin to depart from canon.
> 
> ‘Endogenous morphine’ is more colloquially known as ‘endorphins’, but Lucien loves his five dollar words.

_ I stand in an open field.  _

_ The sky is low. No wind. no clouds.  _

_ Someone’s calling my name. _

_ I look around and see a hazy figure in the distance. _

_ I chase after the figure, but it only gets farther away. _

_ Its colour gets lighter, as if haloed with water, starting to disappear around the edges. _

_ Suddenly a great fog swallows everything. _

_ All I see now is an icy grey. _

She’s shivering.

The sound of chattering teeth is what breaks Lucien’s concentration. He puts the document down on his desk and crosses to the open bedroom door. It’s quite temperate in the apartment; there’s no reason for her to be cold.

She is huddled in the middle of the bed, face twisted with fear and something else he can’t identify. The bedclothes have been kicked to the footboard, and her hands and feet twitch. 

Ah, a dream. Lucien has touched her dreams before; mostly they’re unremarkable, incoherent fragments of the day jumbled with the kind of free association the subconscious excels at. This looks different. After watching her in his bed for so many nights, he knows she isn’t prone to nightmares in the normal course of things. He can feel his evol responding to her proximity. He’s never had the opportunity to watch hers in action, and the temptation to observe and gather data is too strong to ignore. He kneels by the bed and curls his hand into hers --

The hallway of the Loveland TV Tower. 

The black rose, arrogance and leather and danger.

Shattering glass.

Billowing smoke.

She’s running down a hallway filled with mist.

A flash of blonde hair and a hand leading her up endless rounds of stairs that crumble and fall even as her feet leave them.

Golden eyes that take her will away.

The red switch.

The fall.

Lucien frees himself from her dream with a snap, his heart hammering in his chest. He recognises the players in the vision. Artemis.  _ Helios _ . His hands crush divots into the edge of the mattress and his jaw clenches. What’s happening? Why can’t he breathe?

It takes a minute for Lucien to identify the emotion rising within him. To identify that it  _ is _ an emotion, not some physiological response to the Queen’s evol. Slowly, carefully, he takes one shuddering breath, and then another, steadying himself, listening to his heartbeat return to normal, waiting for his pulse to stop thumping in his temples. Gradually, the rage ebbs, until he’s once again able to think clearly. He tugs the blankets back over her and leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He returns to his desk. Dispassionately, he reviews the vision.

How she knows Helios, he doesn’t know, and tables the question to address at another time. Her presence at the TV Tower and her encounter with Artemis indicate that she’s discovered the electromagnetic broadcasts he’s so painstakingly initiated. The fact that she’s with Helios and not Lucien -- something happens between them. 

Lucien knows that as long as the Queen trusts him, he’ll be by her side until she awakens fully. If he’s not there, either he’s dead or exposed as Ares. He props his elbows on the desk and rubs his temples, logically arriving at the conclusion that his intuition leapt to while he knelt at her side. 

Black Swan is going to get impatient. Zeus is going to interfere. Months of planning, of strategy, of excruciatingly careful manipulation will be wasted in an instant and instead she’ll plunge headlong into danger, without her full powers, without his protection, without any idea what she’s getting into.

Like she always does.

Lucien leans back, steepling his fingers before him. Zeus has never understood the need for the exactitude Ares insists on, or why the strategy has taken so long to implement. The man is incapable of the proper perspective, and if allowed to, he will ruin everything. If allowed to, he will steal her from Lucien, and destroy any chance of seeing the Queen spread her wings.

He cannot lose her.

The rage rises again, red and hot, but this time Lucien is prepared, ready to harness it. He stands, casting one glance at the bedroom door before taking a step that begins in his apartment, and ends in a spacious hall shrouded in a gloomy, deathly-still darkness.

The masked man seated therein showed no surprise at Lucien’s sudden appearance.

“Ares. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Lucien chooses to skip the pleasantries. “Zeus, call off your dogs.”

The mask shows nothing, but Zeus’ head tilts slightly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The game has hardly begun, and you’re already getting too impatient.” Lucien strides towards him. “Don’t interfere. This is a delicate process --”

“Black Swan does not have time to sit around while you enjoy the Queen’s  _ favours _ , Ares.” Zeus cuts him off. “I suspect the process would be far less delicate if you were enjoying it less.”

In the blink of an eye, Lucien sorts through impulses and options. Kill Zeus. Lunge at him. Throttle him. Roar in possessive fury. Hiss at him, seething poisonous words. Put him to sleep. Fill his mind with terrors. Drag him through folded space to the ends of the earth. Leave him in the middle of the ocean. 

Lucien does none of these things. His face stays smooth, nearly as expressionless as Zeus’ mask. When at last he speaks, it’s in a calm, almost amused tone.

“Zeus. I see the problem here. You’re not a scientist. I realise now that I failed to truly explain to the rest of the Olympians how awakening must be achieved.” He crosses his arms in his favourite ‘harmless professor’ pose and taps one finger on his chin. “Or perhaps I failed to properly impress upon you all the magnitude of the Queen’s fully awakened power.”

The mask shows nothing, but Zeus dips his chin slightly. “Elaborate.”

“You see, Zeus, the Queen is the only one who can traverse the Black Cabin freely. She is the only one who can truly use the Panopticon.”

“Yes, we know that.” Zeus’ voice was gruff. “That’s the whole point of this exercise.”

Lucien raises his eyebrows, radiating innocent surprise. “Did it never occur to you to wonder about the wisdom of handing that power to someone who isn’t fully committed to us?”

Zeus waits silently.

“If the Queen has any reason -- any reason at all -- to mistrust us, fear us, or otherwise work against our goals, awakening her is suicide.” He paces past Zeus, staring out the huge windows to the vast city below. “I call the process delicate because it is. Conditioning someone to trust, implicitly and unquestioningly, is time-consuming.” He glances over his shoulder. “Particularly when, as you know, we’re not actually trustworthy.”

Zeus makes a non-committal sound. 

Lucien returns his attention to the cityscape. “By ‘enjoying the Queen’s favours’, as you so euphemistically phrase it, I am speeding up the process, not delaying it. Sexual gratification, in addition to the expected intensification of the emotional bond, assists the conditioning process by the release of oxytocin, prolactin, and endogenous morphine. Every encounter she has with me chemically reinforces that bond. Every encounter trains her to obey me, to surrender to my wishes instead of her own.” Eyes hooded, Lucien places one hand against the window, letting the sensation of cool glass ground him. “Besides, if you wish to be precise --”

“Which you always do,” mutters his audience.

“-- then although she is enjoying  _ my _ favours, I have not yet enjoyed hers, nor do I plan to any time soon.” Lucien turns back to face Zeus, his smile a cold slash in his pale face. “I am a scientist, Zeus, overseeing a project with a defined goal, not a hormonal teenager lost in the pleasures of the flesh.”

Zeus drums his fingers on the arm of his chair in contemplation. Lucien waits, summoning all his patience.

“How long?”

Lucien folds his hands behind his back in satisfaction. “Not long now. We are very close.”

“ _ How _ close?” Zeus is insistent. If Lucien were a less controlled man, he would sigh. As it stands, his hands tighten on each other before he answers.

“A few more months, perhaps. This type of indoctrination is not an exact science.” His mouth twists in distaste at admitting to this, but it is a fact.

“Very well.” Zeus may be overbearing and impatient, but he isn’t stupid. “But keep us informed, Ares. You’re in charge of this project, but your reluctance to provide status updates gains you no support with the rest of the Olympians.”

_Bureaucrat_, Lucien thinks venomously. “Of course,” He answers, before taking the step that finishes back in his apartment. 

He stands in the middle of the living room, listening. The bedroom door is still closed. Good. She’s still asleep. She doesn’t know that he’s been and gone.

Now that the immediate crisis is past, Lucien has time to reflect. His jaw is still tense with anger. He heads to the kitchen, thinking to make himself some tea. The ritual of selecting the blend, filling the infuser, and setting the kettle to the correct temperature for the delicate leaves brings him some calm. It’s been many years since he’s felt anything this strongly, this hotly. He isn’t sure what’s prompted it. 

As the kettle heats, he examines his unfamiliar emotions. Lucien prides himself on logic and pragmatism. Physically, he knows he’s unimposing, but Ares is the god of war, not combat. He is skilled in strategy and tactics. He plays the long game, dealing with setbacks and taking advantage of opportunities as they arise. He realises, in retrospect, just how close he was to losing control in Zeus’ office. He had been ready to attack the man with his bare hands.

Why?

Zeus has always been shortsighted, and Ares has always found him irritating, but until now it’s been in a remote, cold way, easily dismissed like the buzzing of an insect on the other side of a screen. Today is different; today the rationality of Ares had deserted him, replaced by an impulsive rage against -- What? Lucien can not find a logical cause for the bloodthirsty wrath that had consumed him. Even now, he can feel the banked coals of his anger heating his mind, evaporating any sense of prudence. 

Is it Zeus’ insinuations about his loyalty? Is it the man’s belief that someone else might do the job better or faster? His breath comes faster as the kettle steams. Is it the thought of someone else standing by her side when she comes into her own?

The beep of the kettle coming to temperature startles him, and he very nearly flings the appliance across the small kitchen before coming back to reality. Gathering his wits, he slowly fills the china teapot and shuts his eyes against the sweet scent of the tea. He loads the pot and two cups onto a tray and carries it to the bedroom, flicking off lights as he goes. His night vision is exceedingly clear, and he doesn’t want to startle her awake.

He hears her breathing change as he sets the tray down on the nightstand. By the time her eyes open, two full cups of tea are waiting.

“Lucien?” Her voice is raspy with sleep. She reaches out blindly from her huddle, and he catches her hand and brings it to his lips.

“I’m here,” he murmurs to her fingertips. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She traces his mouth lightly before retrieving her hand to rub at her eyes. “I had another one of those dreams. The premonitions.” Her own mouth is drawn and tense.

It takes every ounce of control he has not to blurt out ‘I know’. Instead he nudges her further into the bed and climbs in beside her. “Do you want to tell me about it?” He puts his arm around her shoulders and cuddles her close, letting her legs swing across his lap and her forehead rest in the crook of his neck. She stays there quietly for a minute before speaking, and when she does her voice betrays her in a dry croak. Lucien chuckles and hands her one of the tea cups.

“Drink this first. It’ll help wake up your voice.”

He knows that in keeping with his plan, now would be another opportunity to seduce her; he should be soothing away her tension and fear with his hands and tongue and the accessories stored carefully in the wooden case under the bed. She’s vulnerable and upset and it provides yet another crack in her armour for him to force open. 

She sips her tea and fidgets against him as she swallows. All thoughts of his plan evaporate in her warm breath against his chest when she sighs before speaking. 

Haltingly, she describes the dream, matching the details he saw in her sleep. She does provide one piece of information he was missing: Kiro. Helios is Kiro Chow. Tears of stress and fatigue roll down her face as she speaks. She doesn’t seem to be aware of them, and Lucien doesn’t comment or wipe them away. He does pull the comforter over them both, and take the tea cup from her hands when her voice starts to go fuzzy and lethargic. He ignores the urge to put her to sleep with his power, instead simply holding her close and warm against him.

He’s still sitting there when the sun peeks in through the blinds, his own tea undrunk and long since cold. She slumbers on, one hand caught in his shirt, long even breaths ruffling the ends of her hair. Lucien has, in the hours since she fell asleep, realised two things.

One: Zeus was right. Not in the details, maybe, but certainly in implication.

Two: It doesn’t matter.


	5. Captive Rearing

She kneels at the head of the bed, blindfolded, cheek and hands and breasts pressed against the wall. Her back arches sharply as her buttocks lift towards him. He smiles at the curve of her spine as he positions the toy below her. The base is oblong and heavy, keeping the head of the dildo aimed upwards once he pulls his hand away.

“Are you ready?”

She nods silently. Lucien frowns at her. He pulls another small box from the drawer at the bedside. This one contains a smaller toy, glass, bulbous and tapered. The flared base is carved into a yellow rose that throws golden shards of light as the sun catches it. He drags the cool glass tip up her spine and along her jaw, until it rests on her lower lip, the weight pulling her mouth open. Her tongue slips over her upper lip and her breathing harshens.

“That’s not how we do this, you know that.” His tone is warm, but reproving. “You know it doesn’t count if you can’t say it out loud.” He presses the tip of the plug forward slightly and watches her mouth open wider to surround it, enjoying the distorted image of her pink tongue wetting the underside. It’s such a lovely picture he nearly forgets his plan for the day. At last he brings himself back on track, pulling the plug back and running it back down her spine, teasing down the line between her buttocks. “So I ask again: Are you ready?”

Her lips close as she swallows. He watches her as he flicks the lid off a bottle of lube and pours it down the plug and his fingers. Her eyelashes are concealed by the blindfold, but he can imagine them trembling as her cheek reddens, trying to find the confidence to use words instead gestures. Finally, her lips part again.

“I’m ready, Lucien.”

“ _ Good girl. _ ” 

Lucien kneels behind her on the bed, admiring the pose: blind, vulnerable, knees splayed and private places presented to him, as if on a platter. He follows the trail marked by the tip of the glass plug with his lubricated fingers, drawing a wet line between the dimples of her back and caressing the sensitive pucker of flesh between her round cheeks. She shivers at his touch; not painful, never painful, but invasive nonetheless as he breaches the tight ring of muscle with one finger. His other hand feathers up the inside of her thigh, teasing the soft hair between her legs until her entire lower body clenches with the effort of not pushing towards him. 

He works a second finger into her, slowly sinking into her body. “You’re doing so well,” he assures her, and is rewarded with a sharp gasp as his right thumb brushes across her clitoris. He brings the thumb back to his mouth to catch the faint taste of her; she isn’t wet enough yet to leave evidence, but her musk is lingering for his inhale. He licks his thumb and returns to press against her nub again, firmly this time. She jolts at the contact, clenching around his ever-present left hand. His right fingers nudge her folds apart, allowing her arousal to seep out and render her warm and slick. He spreads it forward and back until she is slippery and wet from clitoris to anus. Carefully, slowly, he withdraws his left hand and reaches for the plug.

She trembles as he teases the glass tip against her sphincter, with anticipation and the effort of holding still. Lucien smirks faintly; this is for him, all him. No one else has ever seen her like this, flushed with wanting and shaking like a leaf. Slowly, a millimetre at a time, he sinks the plug into her welcoming body, while his right hand continues its meandering exploration of her labia. A soft exhale escapes her as the base of the plug nestles against her and her thighs flex involuntarily, making her pelvis dip and brush glistening wetness against the tip of the dildo prepared beneath her.

“Wh-what’s that?” 

Lucien doesn’t answer right away, instead withdrawing both hands to sit back on his heels. He drinks in the visual: she is still obediently presenting, the glass rose shining warm gold against her skin. He takes the time to wipe his hands clean before finally responding. 

“Today, we’ll be playing with both sides of you.” He places his hands on her hips, giving them a careful squeeze before guiding her down onto the dildo. Once she’s poised on the tip, he releases her. “Take your time, my butterfly. You can work that in as slowly as you like.”

She bites her lip and curls her toes into the duvet for traction. Her hips swivel, tracing minute circles in the air as she explores the dimensions of the phallus beneath her. Lucien watches in silence, imagining fluttering wings holding her aloft as her body kisses the toy in search of a safe landing. At last, the phantasmal wings settle and fold when she lowers herself to engulf the head of the dildo. She chokes off a moan as it slides into her; Lucien imagines the head of the dildo dragging against the plug in her rear, separated only by a soft layer of muscle. Her descent pauses while she tries to adjust to the unaccustomed distension.

“It feels so big -- “ Her voice is breathy, higher than normal. The toy is not so much wider than his two fingers, but flat fingers and a round cock are very different experiences, he knows. The plug will only enhance the feeling as it presses back against the dildo when she shifts, panting, to slide further down the shaft. It’s several minutes of relative silence, punctuated by moaning sighs and grunts, until she’s worked the dildo completely into herself. Her buttocks rest on her heels and the yellow rose sparkles as she rocks slowly against her two intrusions. Her fair skin is damp with perspiration, adding a shimmer to the delicious pink flush of her cheek and neck and breasts.

“How does it feel?” Lucien asks, and she startles. “Did you forget I was here?” he chuckles.

“I -- maybe a little.” Her jaw clenches, and he can follow the ripple of tension down her neck and back. Her round gluteal muscles clench and relax in tiny increments as she speaks, telegraphing the internal quest for friction and pressure. He waits patiently.

“It feels -- I feel so  _ full _ .” The arches of her feet are tightening. He sees her try to spread her knees wider, press closer to the wall, anything to direct the pressure inside to her most sensitive area. Stealthily, Lucien begins to disrobe.

“Is it a good feeling, or a bad feeling?” His shirt lands in a soft heap beside the bed and he reaches for his belt buckle.

“Good.  _ S-so _ good.” Her voice stutters in time with her hips. Her fingers are spasming, and the scrape of her nails against the wall covers the soft thunk of his belt joining the shirt on the floor.

“You look so good like this,” he tells her as he slides his trousers and shorts down over his feet and shoves them into the growing heap of clothes. “All warm and pink and open.” He reclines across the end of the bed and rests his head on his left hand, while his right lazily grazes its way down his torso. “You look beautiful when you’re full like this.” He strokes his erection slowly, feeling it bob against his stomach. 

She’s still squirming in place, trying so hard to maintain the position he’s requested of her, but no matter how she rocks she’s unable to command herself to climax with her upper body pinned against the wall. Lucien smiles, a wolfish smile he knows she wouldn’t recognize on his face. “You want -- no, you  _ need _ more, don’t you, butterfly?”

Her panting face is answer enough, but he’s already laid out the rules of this game, and he waits for her to follow them. Instead he attends to himself, stroking his own hard length with firm, steady sweeps. Inevitably she swallows and finds her voice.

“I need to come, Lucien. Please,” her voice takes on a delightfully reedy note that makes his cock shiver, “Please help me come.”

“Turn around,” he orders. She lifts her hands off the wall and reaches for the scarf hiding her eyes. “No, don’t touch that.” Her hands fall obediently. “Just rotate in place. Don’t change anything else.” He dribbles some lube on his right hand and lets his strokes speed up slightly as she rises slightly, giving her knees and toes leeway to reorient her towards him in a slow shuffle. She gasps and nearly collapses forwards as the dildo and plug shift with her movement.

“Take your time, my queen.” Lucien squeezes himself and slides his thumb smoothly over the head of his cock while he admires her tenacity in remaining upright. By the time she’s fully facing him, his erection is heavy and hard as a lead pipe, red and purple contrasting with his pale abdomen. 

“Please -- now --” Her pelvis is working in a steady grind on the dildo now. She’s stretched open enough that he can see her clitoris peeking out from its hood, pink and swollen and glistening. “Please touch me!”

“Oh, no, I’m not going to touch you, silly girl.” His voice betrays none of the effort he’s putting in to keeping it steady as he squeezes himself. “But I  _ will _ help you come. Just follow my directions.”

It’s at his urging that she slides two of her own fingers in her mouth to the third knuckle, while her left hand tweaks and pinches at her nipple before curving down to trace faint nail lines in to the curve of her waist. Her fingers, suitably moistened, blaze their own trail down to her clitoris, now twitching visibly as every muscle in her pelvis clenches needfully. 

Lucien’s breath catches when she finally makes contact, sliding her fingers in a tight V around the bundle of nerves and pressing against it with a throaty moan. He twists his wrist, making his hand spiral down his length while he thrusts into it. He’s very close, but he needs to make sure her climax is of the appropriate magnitude for this session to be anything but wasted entertainment. Faster, harder, he urges her, matching her speed and desperate friction with his own equipment. 

When she falls over that cliff -- nearly literally, her orgasm pitching her facedown into the mattress to muffle her relieved sobs while her thighs quake around the toys inside her -- he follows with no hesitation, biting down hard on his wrist to silence his own groan of completion. She mustn't know. He shouldn’t be doing this. This isn’t about him. 

“Stay still,” he says when he can trust his voice again. “I’ll get a cloth and help you lie down.” Without care for comfort or cleanliness he yanks his shorts on and the trousers with them. Judging the belt to be too complicated, he fumbles his way into the shirt and comes to the head of the bed. 

“You did so well, my dear.” He strokes her back soothingly as he carefully slides the plug out, following it with a cool washcloth. He helps her crawl forward off the dildo and pushes it onto the floor to be cleaned later. “Here, stretch out. You’ve been kneeling too long.” He tugs the blindfold off and gathers her against his chest.

In the back of his head, Ares asks himself what he’s doing. This isn’t how this was meant to go, but he couldn’t help himself. He’s never lost control like that before. The blindfold was his saving grace; she still has no idea the effect she’s having on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how when people are drawing, they’ll get other people to pose for them or use a mirror to reference expressions and gestures? And how writers will go out and experience the things they’re writing about to add verisimilitude, because how do you know if that actually works if you haven’t tried it? Well, this chapter was very much a case of ‘testing the logistics’ in the real world, and lemme tell you, it is very hard to take notes in that situation. (Also, it is time to replace the batteries in my vibrator, it won’t hold a charge longer than five minutes anymore)


	6. Chrysalis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter! Our first occasion of sex in the traditional penetrative sense, I’m so proud of them. One more to go; I might get it written this weekend if all goes well, but time is an illusion, productive time doubly so, so who knows.
> 
> Also of note: I finally managed to work in the prompt that started this whole mess!

He can tell there’s been something on her mind. When they go out, she casts sideways glances at him, thinking him oblivious. She hesitates before taking his hand in public. She flinches every time another woman passes by.

“What’s on your mind,” he asks her over tea.

She flushes, her eyes skittering away from his steady gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He chuckles. “Of course you do.” He sips his tea, studying her over the rim of the cup. “You seem apprehensive, lately. Hesitant. As though you’re afraid you’re being watched, and judged.”

Her fingers fidget around the handle of her teacup. She sighs quietly. “Yes -- yes, I suppose I have.”

“Why is that?”

“Well --” she trails off, still staring into her cup. He waits. When the rest of the sentence comes, it’s in a blurted rush. “I don’t know what you see in me.”

It’s rare that Lucien finds himself caught off guard. He stares at her, cup still tilted in mid-sip. 

She continues. “You’re so intelligent, and educated, and -- and h-handsome -- and my audiences love you, and I’m just --” her voice lowers sadly, “I’m just me. Plain and boring.” She turns the cup in its saucer, refusing to look up. “I mean, I know you’re getting tired of me.”

Lucien tries to marshal his thoughts into some semblance of order. “What makes you say that?”

“We --” her eyes dart from side to side, checking that no one else in the cafe is listening. “We haven’t even had sex yet,” she whispers. “Not properly. And you’re never, you know --” She gestures vaguely to her own lap, “ _ interested _ .” Her forehead is glowing beet red.

Lucien puts his cup down slowly, precisely centering it on the saucer, before he answers her. “I’ve been holding back, you know. I didn’t want to rush you.” Too controlled. He never thought there was such a thing. “I’ve been very  _ interested _ , but my self-control is quite good.”

She still doesn’t look up at him.

“Do you remember the night you couldn’t sleep, and asked me to tell you a story over the phone?”

She nods.

“The artist and the butterfly. The colourblind artist and the golden, glowing butterfly.” Lucien smiles warmly at her. “I don’t know if I can explain it in better words than those, but perhaps I can show you.” He rises to his feet and drops a few bills on the table before holding his hand out to her. “Will you indulge me?”

Her lashes are still lowered, but she looks up through them, the gleam of her golden eyes tantalizing him. “Of course, Lucien.”

They make a few purchases on the way home: an art store, for India ink and brushes. A theatre store, for gold makeup and sponges. Lucien slides his coffee table out of the way and lays down a sheet on the floor. He stands a large mirror at one end of the room. She watches his preparations with avid curiosity.

“Here,” he tells her. “Take off your clothes for me, and lie down on your stomach.” She is, as ever, obedient to his wishes.

She lies naked before him. Her head is turned to one side, pillowed on her folded hands. Her elbows are splayed out in a line with her shoulders, letting her scapulae rest flat against her ribcage. Her legs are straight. The soles of her feet face the ceiling, big toes resting against each other as her ankles supinate outwards.

“Ink me, Professor,” she murmurs into her hands.

********************************************************

The brush drips black ink as Lucien holds it over the pot, waiting for the excess to run off. He carefully studies his canvas in the meantime, contemplating the placement of the next line. 

His work is a delicate tracery that stands in stark relief against her pale skin: the careful symmetry of butterfly’s wings rooted between her shoulders, spreading across her upper arms and down her back, wrapping around her ribs and ending in a gentle curve around the undersides of her buttocks. 

She’s been lying motionless as he works, for nearly an hour judging by the movement of the sun. Her breathing is so even and relaxed that Lucien thinks she’s fallen asleep. He wipes the brush clean and lays it down, then replaces the lid of the ink bottle. Finally he sits cross-legged to examine his work, losing himself in the intricate tracery of costal and sub-costal veins.

“Are you finished, Professor?” Her sweet voice breaks into his reverie. 

“The first stage,” he replies. “The ink should be dry soon.” 

She hums in reply, wordlessly comfortable. 

“Are you warm enough?”

“Mmmhmm. The sun is beautiful on my skin.” She opens her eyes languorously, and he leans into her field of vision. Her answering smile is warmer than the sunbeam they’re resting in, and he gives into the urge to lie down on his stomach perpendicular to her, so he can breathe kisses onto her eyes and mouth. She giggles, a delicious ripple of joy which starts a warm liquid wave in his stomach that melts a path straight up his chest and face. He rests his chin on his forearms and smiles at her, a spontaneous smile that feels completely foreign on his face.

“I had the dream again,” she sighs, and all the warmth in him freezes solid.

“Which dream?”

“You know, the one from before --” her foot kicks in lieu of waving a hand. “The one with Kiro and the fog and that black haired woman.”

Lucien forces himself to breathe normally. “Was it the same?”

She shakes her head minutely, obedient to his warning about the drying ink. “No. Kiro wasn’t there this time. You were with me instead.”

The ice in his chest cracks; he can feel his heart start to beat again. “Oh.” He breathes in and out, once, twice, thrice before he thinks his lungs can carry on without active direction. “Good. That means I’ll be there to protect you.” 

That means Zeus has taken his warning to heart. Helios will not be there to strip her of all his careful conditioning. That means she’ll still trust him, at the end. 

Overwhelming relief sends a shudder through him, and he’s thankful her eyes are closed again so she doesn’t see. He watches her silently, memorizing every detail of her dainty features, currently blissfully relaxed and unaware of his tremor. 

After a few minutes she rouses enough to look at him again. “Is the ink dry yet?”

He makes a show of examining her back, lightly dabbing his fingertips against the thick margins of her wings. “It seems to be. I can start the gold, now.”

He dampens a small sponge and begins working the shimmering pigment over her back, filling in each wing cell with iridescence that turns molten in the late afternoon sun. This is much faster work than inking the wings themselves, and Lucien finds himself working frantically, chasing the light across her. He feels a desperation in the pit of his stomach, a trepidation that isn’t soothed by the knowledge that he’ll be with her when she goes to the TV tower. 

When he finishes, her entire torso is a beautiful blaze, resplendent and shining in the last of the light. He catches her hand, pulling her to her feet to stand in front of the mirror. He pulls her to face him and lifts her arms around his neck to show her the striation of the black veins as her wings flex and stretch. She cranes her neck over her shoulder to see her reflection. Her expression is a mixture of awe and delight.

“Do you see?” He demands hoarsely. He crushes her against his chest, heedless of the gold paint that smears into the weave of his shirtsleeves. “Do you see now what I see, when I look at you?” He turns her face to look up at him, begging for comprehension. All the other colours fade when he’s apart from her, but in his mind’s eye she is always golden and glowing. Her mouth falls open at his uncharacteristic intensity, but her gaze is compassionate and warm. 

“Lucien, what’s scaring you?”

She doesn’t know. She  _ can’t _ know, or everything will be ruined. Her awakening is so close now, and he doesn’t dare deviate from the plan. For the first time he regrets his choices, regrets his success in finding the Queen and preparing her for metamorphosis. He can’t find words to answer her, can’t bring himself to lie to her in this moment when she’s granted him such a tangible expression of his vision. Instead he slams his mouth against hers, claiming her in a fervid kiss. Her gasp of surprise only sparks fire in his belly. The voice of Ares ordering him to calm down and pull back is lost in the crackling inferno. 

He bears her down to the floor and continues his voracious assault on her lips, not giving her a chance to protest. One hand tangles in her hair, the other fumbles urgently at his shirt buttons. Finally, impatiently, he yanks and hears buttons skitter across the floor as his shirt flies open. Small hands tug the tails free of his trousers and skim over his stomach to start pulling open his belt. 

He grinds into her naked heat as she finds the button and zipper behind the buckle. He’s hard, rutting against her, the long months of self-restraint evaporated like water on a hot pan, leaving behind only the sizzle of need. She bites at his lower lip, not the tentative nips she’s essayed before, but a catch of sharp teeth and the taste of blood as she frees his cock and grabs his waist. She pulls him hard against her, and he slides up through her slippery folds, feeling the head of him rub along her nub. Her chest heaves under him and she releases his lip. He chases her mouth with his own teeth, before laying bruising kisses into her neck, moving down to the trapezius where he bites, hard, and rocks against her.

“ _ Lucien _ .” She gasps his name, husky and yearning, and he pulls back to look at her. “God, Lucien, please --!” Her nails drag lines of fire up his back and he pushes into her with no preamble. None is necessary: she’s wet and open and moaning wantonly with each thrust. She slides one hand into his hair and grips tight, as though fearing he’ll pull away. He returns to her mouth, panting into her, and grabs her other hand, lacing their fingers together against the floor. Her legs pull up around him and lock behind his lumbar vertebrae, pulling him deeper as she clenches around his cock. Lucien feels his eyes roll back in his head when his hips stutter.

“Not yet,” he hisses. He slides his free hand under her shoulders and lifts her with him as he pulls back into a sitting position. Suddenly her breasts are right at the level of his mouth, and he traps her against him to indulge himself in the plush roundness. She squeaks as he bites at the curving underside, but he feels her pulsing around him again. His ferocity isn’t frightening her. Just the opposite, in fact. He buries his face in her cleavage and sucks a red mark onto her sternum, branding her as his.

Lucien uses both hands to grasp her slender waist and lift, turning her on his cock until she’s facing the mirror, straddling his thighs. He spreads his knees, forcing her legs further open, and drags her back down to fully engulf him. His hands slide down her pelvis, gripping at her inner thighs hard enough to bruise before spreading her lips so she can see how he stretches her open.

“Do you see now?” He strokes her clitoris teasingly, and she jerks, driving her buttocks into him. “Do you  _ feel _ how much I’ve wanted you, the fire you’ve lit inside me?” He wraps one arm across her pelvis and pins her to him, while the other hand keeps stroking, increasing in pressure and speed, until she’s shuddering around him, head fallen back on his shoulder and nails driving into his forearm. She’s entirely unable to speak; the only sound she makes is a keening wail while she tries to buck into him. His arm is an iron bar, holding her in exquisite torment. Finally he thrusts up into her and pinches her nub sharply. Her scream of ecstasy matches the violent clenching of her orgasm.

Lucien wastes no time in pushing her face-down to the floor and planting his hands under her shoulders. His abdomen slaps against her as he plunges in, whispering hotly in her ear. “You’re the only warmth in the world. You’re the only colour I see.” He can feel his thighs quivering and knows he’s close. “I can’t be without you.” 

He groans gutterally as he comes, pounding against her helplessly until he feels empty and hollow. Breathing is difficult, and he rests his forehead against her spine. The gold paint is smeared everywhere, on her back and his chest and arms, but the ink wings are still precise and perfect.

He understands now that he fears losing her; not the Queen, but the woman wrapped around her. His butterfly. 


	7. Metamorphosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen awakens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit it’s finished! This last chapter was like pulling teeth, and it got both more emotional and less smutty (though still pretty smutty) than I intended. Tangential spoilers for chapters 14-18, although this has departed from canon pretty heavily so you probably won’t get too spoiled if you haven’t read those yet.  
Thank you to everyone who subscribed, bookmarked, kudos’d and commented, this never would have been completed without that encouragement.

He follows her up the stairs. It would almost be boring, if it weren’t for his knowledge of what awaits them at the top.

They climb in silence, Lucien watching the sway of her skirt ahead of him. He focuses on the pleats fluttering around her knees, her slender calves flexing as she climbs. He’s tempted to reach out and grasp her delicate ankle and pull her back, wrapping her limbs around him, ignoring his mission in favour of burying himself in her.

He’s pulled from his reverie by the sound of her shoes scraping to a halt. 

“We’re here.” She places her hand on the bar of the door, preparing to step out on to the roof of the tower. He’s still amazed at how easy it was to lead her here, pretending to follow the trail of clues he’d littered for her to find. He smiles fondly as she looks back at him, amber eyes sparkling with excitement. “Are you ready, Lucien?”

“I’m ready,” he purrs, stifling his anxiety about what lies before them. He’s done his job well. The Queen will trust him, just as his butterfly does. There is nothing to fear. He places his hand over hers on the crash bar.

The roof of the tower is disappointingly prosaic: an open square covered in gravel, with a steel pylon supporting an antenna. The only sound is the faint rush of traffic many stories below them. It’s hardly a worthy setting for the portentous event about to take place.

She leads him across the roof to the pylon and stares up at it. “Is this it? Is this what’s causing everyone’s Evols to go out of control?”

“All evidence seems to point that way.” He stares up, squinting against the sun’s glare. “The antenna is centrally placed, and high enough to reach most of the city.”

“How do we shut it off?”

Lucien holds his breath as she circles the pylon slowly, homing in on the red switch box. He follows her, coming to stand behind her as her hand caresses the switch. 

“Are you ready?” she asks. Her tone is faint, eyes absent. She might be talking to him, or herself, or the world. He casts one last glance up at the silent pylon.

_ Silly girl. _

The switch clunks across its hinge. For a moment nothing happens, and Lucien begins to wonder if he’s miscalculated somehow. Then the pylon hums to life, and he feels the powerful amplification field spring up around them. 

“What --?” She’s shocked, looking up in disbelief. “It was already off?” He places his hands on her shoulders and she whirls to face him. “Lucien, what’s going on?”

“It’s been waiting for you, butterfly. Can’t you feel it working?” He can feel his own Evols responding to the field, but he’s been exposing himself to it off and on for nearly a year. Maintaining control is easy. Not so for her; suddenly dropped into the center of the field, she’s overwhelmed. Her eyes are wide and staring. He knows she’s being assaulted by images, possibilities, quantum futures, and it’s too much for her. With a shuddering sigh, she collapses against him. He gathers her unconscious form into a bridal carry and sits against the waist-high wall, waiting to see who awakens.

*************************************

A faint whimper alerts him before her eyes flick open. Her pupils are so dilated the irises are nearly invisible, just a thin amber border around black pupils. She stares up at him with lips parted, and he is struck by the memory of her pinned to his living room floor, pupils blown wide with wanting.

“Hello,” he breathes.

She blinks a few times, pupils slowly contracting against the afternoon light. “Lucien?” Her voice is faint. He waits, and is rewarded. “_Ares _.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

She pushes away from him, climbing out of his lap and standing on her own. He rises to stand beside her, ready to guide her back to the stairs, back to Black Swan. He touches her elbow, but suddenly his fragile butterfly is a steel cable under his hand, immovable.

“You didn’t need to awaken me,” she states flatly. He stares at her. She stares back, inscrutable. “You’d already headed off Zeus and Hades’ foolishness with the virus. You don’t need me here.” She looks around, dismissing him as unimportant for the moment. 

“I needed to complete my mission, my Queen.” 

“Your mission was a waste of time. Black Swan will never have me.” He watches her stalk to the switch box and flip it back to the off position. The hum of electricity dies, and he can feel all his hopes die with it. Her body language is alien, strong and certain and unquestioning and nothing at all like the butterfly he’s tamed. His heart feels cold. 

She glances back at him.

“She’s still here, Ares.” The Queen turns and walks to him, reaching up to cup his cheek. “She couldn’t leave.” He gapes down at her. “_I__diot. _ Did you think neither of us would realise?”

“Realise what?”

“That you love her.”

It’s reflex that has him blurting out a denial of sorts. “I’m not _ allowed _ \--”

She’s having none of it. “But you do. And so does she.”

“She shouldn’t.”

“Oh, I know. And so does she, now. We’ve seen everything.” Her hand slides down his neck to stroke his tie. “Every possibility. Every way this played out. Every betrayal,” she grabs his tie, nails scoring the silk, “And she still loves you, Ares.”

Lucien gapes down at her, at a complete loss. His mouth works for a moment before he can find words. “Why?”

The Queen smiles up at him, a self-assured Cheshire Cat curl. “Because even when you betray her, you protect her. As much as you can. It’s rather sweet, actually.” Her grip on his tie tightens as she begins to pull him down, a slow steady drag.

“I don’t -- I don’t understand,” he stammers desperately.

“Lucien.” It’s her voice again, the delicate butterfly’s sweet tone. “It’s alright.” She presses a gentle kiss to his lips and he’s back in the art gallery, so many months ago. He raises his hands to cup her face, losing himself in her soft mouth. 

At last they part, and he stares down at her in wonder. “I still don’t understand.”

She gives him a tremulous smile, and he can still see the Queen lurking in her eyes, but the smile is all her. “None of it matters, Lucien. No matter how all of this ends, you always love me.” Her cheeks bloom with the same blush he remembers evoking as they stood in echo of Klimt’s kiss. “And I love you.” She reaches up to clasp her hands around the nape of his neck. “Please, Lucien, take me home,” she leans in, pressing against him with an assertiveness he’s never dared dream of, “And _ take me _.”

The idea of descending the stairs and taking a bus or a taxi never occurs to him. He slides his arms around her waist and _ steps _ backwards into her bedroom. His heel hits the foot of the bed and he’s falling backwards onto the duvet, pulling her down on top of him. She lands clumsily, straddling his hips with her hands planted next to his ears. 

“Are you sure?” Lucien’s voice is hoarse. It seems absurd to ask now, of all times, after months of practically forcing her to want him, but the mission is blown, the Queen autonomous, and he desperately wants something real to make up for everything he’s repressed in the name of Black Swan. 

She giggles and his heart lightens when she dips her head to dust kisses across his forehead and down his nose. Her lips trace a sweet path across his mouth and along his jaw, coming to rest next to his ear. A puff of warm breath accompanies her answer.

“I’m positive, Lucien.” Her kisses continue down his neck and into the gap of his collar, before she pulls back to start undoing his tie with an adorably focused expression. At last she pulls the silk out of his collar and eyes him contemplatively. 

“You know,” she says, and even in the dim light he can see both of them in her eyes. “You’ve worked so hard over the last few months to make me feel good.” She takes his wrists and tugs until he lets her lift his arms over his head, and starts to wind the tie around them. “I have the feeling you won’t believe any of this is real until I’ve had the chance to return the favour a little.” She leans over him, the fabric of her shirt brushing against his nose. He can feel the tug of the tie against his wrists until his hands are resting against the headboard. He twitches experimentally and realises she’s tied him to the bed.

“What are you doing?”

She crawls backwards down his torso until they’re nose to nose. “I’ve seen everything you’ve done to me, Lucien.” Her forehead gently bumps against his before she’s moving down again, undoing each button of his shirt and kissing the skin behind it before proceeding to the next one. “More importantly, I’ve seen everything you haven’t done, everything you could have done, everything you did somewhere else but not here.” Her lips brush his navel and Lucien can feel his abdominal muscles flinch when she trails her tongue across them. 

“Do you know,” she continues conversationally as her fingers make short work of his belt buckle. “You’ve done this in other places -- other timelines?” She looks off in the distance for a moment before shrugging. “Taken me to bed. Conditioned me.” The belt falls open and the zipper of his trousers follows suit. “But you always hold yourself back.” She smirks a little and he flushes, remembering the afternoon in front of the mirror. “Well, nearly always. It’s never been about you.”

Her fingers slide under the waistband of his shorts, and slowly pull until his erection springs free, hard and hot. She leans in and he shivers as her hair tickles his skin. “I’ve been wanting this for a long time.” She rubs her cheek along the length of him. “This is about you.”

His heart nearly hammers out of his chest when she takes the head of his cock into her mouth. Her mouth is hot and wet and the slide of her tongue has him gritting his teeth. At the sound of his groan she sucks hard and the headboard creaks as his hands are stymied in their effort to grab her. 

She slides off him with a quiet pop and grins. “Do you like that, Lucien?” Sucking him back in, she pulls his trousers and shorts down to his knees and nudges him to pull his legs free. He’s splayed in front of her, his only clothing the shirt hanging from his bound forearms. His hips flex, yearning to thrust into her mouth.

Lucien forces his arms to relax against the tie. “I do.” His body is aching to hold her. “But --” his voice falters.

“But what?” She waits patiently, crouched over him, breathing warmly against him as he tries to figure out how to just ask for something. Lucien represses everything for his mission. Ares takes what is necessary. But now, he has the opportunity to request his deepest desire and receive it, freely given, _ knowingly _ given.

“I want . . . “ He trails off, then sucks in a steadying breath and starts again. “I want to hold you.”

She blinks up at him. 

“Everything I’ve done up to now has been for someone else’s goals.” He licks his lips, mesmerised by the gleam of her eyes. “I just want to hold you. For myself.”

The catch of her breath is audible. They stare at each other in silence for a moment, Lucien painfully aware that neither his blush nor his erection are fading. Then suddenly she is slithering back up his torso until her mouth meets his in a desperate, hungry kiss while her hands work at the knot in the tie. The instant his hands are free he sheds the shirt and wraps his arms around her, one hand clutching her waist and the other buried in her hair. They spend several minutes in this pose, drinking each other in, bodies grinding against each other. Lucien feels like the hormonal teenager he once disclaimed to Zeus as he moans into her. 

Finally, the feeling of her clothing against his skin is too much. “Please,” he begs. “Let me undress you.”

She presses away from him, hands on his shoulders. “No, I don’t think so.” He can feel himself shrivel as she crawls off of him. Her hands move to the bow of her sash and his heart stops. “We’re done with you doing things to me, Lucien.” The sash falls loose and she slides the dress over her head and sits back on her knees, all pale pink flesh and white cotton underthings. She reaches up to touch the clasp of her bra and meets his eyes. “_I’m _ doing this now.” She shrugs the bra away as the clasp slips open and shimmies out of her panties. A beautiful flush warms her breasts as she comes back to him and settles in his arms. “Do you understand?”

The emotional whiplash is wiped away by the feeling of her soft hair curling along his cock, recovered and straining against her. He holds her close again, waiting for her to make the first move. Patience is rewarded; she gathers herself to slide wetly over his cock, teasing him with her arousal. Long minutes of this and they’re both panting heavily. Each flex of her hips is slower, tantalizing him with the rub and gentle catch of her clitoris against the head of his erection. Finally, she raises her hips enough to angle him against her entrance and pauses, teasing.

“Are you ready?” she asks, that Cheshire cat smile on her swollen mouth. Lucien’s mouth is dry, but he forces the sound from his throat.

“_Yes -- _” and she’s engulfing him, moist heat and delicious pressure and it’s so different from that day of the mirror because she’s in charge and letting him be inside her. All the muscles from his diaphragm to his thighs clench tight and spasm as she rides him, leaning back and dragging his hands up her torso. He follows and brings his mouth to her breasts, sucking desperately at her nipples as his hands clutch her hips hard enough to bruise.

She gasps as his teeth scrape across her and he can see her hand sliding down her own stomach in his peripheral vision. She tightens around him as her fingers rub desperately at her clit, and he loses all sense of control. His face is buried between her breasts as her orgasm shudders around him and he can no longer hold off his own, spilling into her and feeling all his discipline evaporate. They fall back into the sheets, still twitching around each other. Her mouth lands on his clavicle and she presses open kisses to it, each own mirrored by a shivering aftershock around his softening cock. 

“This is how it is from now on, Lucien.” Her voice is a hoarse whisper, but still sweet. “Can you accept that?”

He considers, long enough for his cock to slide out of her and the sweat on his chest and forehead to cool and dry. He’s not in charge anymore, and she’s not quite the butterfly he tamed. Black Swan will still need to be dealt with; the Queen is a threat to them now, and a rogue Olympian can’t be left alone. But -- 

He looks down at her and smiles. It’s not one of his practiced smiles, trotted out for appropriate reactions to appropriate occasions, and he has no idea what it looks like.

“I can, and I will . . . my Monarch.”

All things considered, the situation could be much worse.


End file.
